1 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
YOU AND I. 
BT FRANK FORREST. 
Standing iu the moonlight 
’Neath the clear blue sky, 
Talking low together, 
Only you and I. 
Talk of how the breezes 
Round us gently sigh; 
How the lovely moonlight 
Falls o’er you and I. 
Talk about Time’s angel 
Passing swiftly by, 
Waiting not for any. 
Even you and I; 
Talk how summer flowers 
Fade away and die; 
Sink into a silent tomb, 
So must you and I. 
Talk of how the church spires, 
Pointing to the sky, 
Mark the way of wisdom.— 
So should you and I. 
Talking thus together 
'Neath the clear blue sky, 
Sweet was our communion, 
Loved one.—you and I. 
If for aye we've parted, 
Earnestly we’ll try 
To meet again—if not on earth, 
In-heaven—you and I. 
Ottawa, Ill., 1862. 
{Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SOMETHING FOB “GIRLS.” 
Everybody said (and of course what everybody 
says must he true) that Alfred Lamkkkt would 
never amount to anything, “ He is too much like 
his father to ever be anything or anybody.” To be 
sure, old Tom Lambert teas, at the time of which 
we write, a dissipated loafer, who spent most of his 
time and much of his money at the village tavern, 
and had never been seen in the pretty little church 
upon the hill. Rumor said that Tom was once a 
handsome man. but dissipation had long since 
obliterated all traces of manly beauty. Rumor also 
said that in his youth he had been highly respected 
and loved by all wbo knew him: but in an evil 
hour he had fallen, perhaps to rise no more forever. 
Years tied, and the once gifted youth bad become a 
beastly man, shunned by all. As a crowning act 
of degradation, he married a miserably low and 
degraded woman, and then removed from his native 
place (o a village in New England. After the birth 
of his son, there seemed for a time to be a change 
in the father; hut it was a leeble rally, and he was 
soon with his “cups” again. 
As I have said, everybody ‘'knew that Albert 
would never rise in the world.” “ There was not a 
more ragged, filthy or disagreeable boy in the dis¬ 
trict school than he. His hair never presented an 
appearance of having been combed, his face was 
always dirty, and his shoestrings always unlied.” 
The boy was not absolutely homely; indeed, his 
eyes were ro beautiful as to be often the occasion 
of remark; his hair was naturally quite tine and 
soft, though the sadly neglected state in which it 
was always seen, together with the slatternly ap¬ 
pearance of his person in general, conlirmed people 
in the belief that he was reckless and indifferent to 
the opinion of every one. In short. “ he was like 
his father, and would never be anybody.” 
Albert was not in ignoranee of the light in 
which he was held up 1o every stranger who visited 
the place, nor of the disparaging remarks so often 
made about him, though a knowledge of both facts 
seemed to produce no effect upon his feelings. 
Opposite to the seat Avhicb he occupied in the 
school room, sat a little girl of about the same age 
as Albert, who, strange to say. seemed to take an 
interest in him. Once or twice had she been de¬ 
tected in passing little notes over from her desk to 
his, one of which had been publicly read before the 
school as punishment for the misdemeanor. .She 
had written merely to ask if he would not “please 
tie up his shoestrings and cravat, for he would look 
so much better if he would.” 
Sarah was a sweet girl, and the favorite of all 
her schoolmates. Her teachers wondered what she 
could see to admire in Albert, when all the hand¬ 
some boys iu school were vying with each other to 
lay upon her desk the largest apple. Rut one day 
as Albert was being punished for some act of 
disobedience, he willfully struck his teacher, and. a 
day or so afterward, accidentally overheard Sara it 
say that she “had never thought Albert so bad 
ns that:' The words produced a strange effect. 
He was very fond of the gentle Sarah, although, 
judging from his uncouth and uncivil manner, no 
person would have surmised that he possessed such 
an attribute as affection. That she should thus 
speak, who had often spoken so kindly of him, 
caused him to feel very badly, and awoke within 
bis breast a desire to do better, and to ‘‘be some¬ 
body.” Then anil there he resolved that, notwith¬ 
standing everybody’s opinion to the contrary, he 
would become a different hoy. 
The following day the scholars (and, most of all, 
Sarah) were greatly astonished to see Alfred 
Lambert make his appearance with a clean face, 
his cravat and shoestrings tied, and his hair neatly 
smoothed. In a few days, in the place of the ragged 
clothes, was seen a neat and whole, though plain, 
suit of brown: and not only was his personal ap¬ 
pearance vastly improved, but there was a visible 
change iu his manner, and the change was percepti¬ 
ble to all. As a matter of course, every one won¬ 
dered at the sudden transformation, but none, save 
Albert himself, knew the cause. About this time, 
an uncle of Albert’s residing in a Western city 
sent word to his brother that he was in need of a 
clerk, and would give Albert a place in his estab¬ 
lishment if he would part with him. Albert went. 
Nothing more was heard from him in ten years, at 
the end of which time lie came back a noble, hand¬ 
some and influential man, as well as a wealthy 
merchant. Everybody was for once compelled to 
admit that they were mistaken. When the merchant 
returned to <he Far West,he took with him a lovely 
and affectionate wife, who answered to the name of 
Sarah. It was the same Sarah who, through the 
influence of gentleness and kindness, had, when 
but a child, won the wayward boy from a gulf of 
sin and misery, and placed him upon heights of 
eminence and respectability. Let all of my readers 
who are girls, then, learn from this short, though 
true story, that through their influence much good 
may be accomplished where nothing else can avail. 
Broclcport, N. Y., 1862. H. F. P. 
The head learns new things, but the heart forever¬ 
more practices old experiences. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
HOME. 
A sacred name is that of home. Other words 
may please the car, other joys enrich the soul; but 
insignificant do they ever become when contrasted 
with the pleasures and benefits of this cherished spot. 
Unlike are the abodes of all in symmetry and 
style, in influence and discipline, in power and 
worth-while, at the same lime, each bring? its 
possessor advantages and interests no other place 
can ever afford. Though magnificent or humble in 
its architecture and surroundings, many peculiar 
fascinations cluster around it. forever separated from 
the outward world. As a lock of hair, or precious 
gift from the departed, are choice mementoes for the 
recipient only, so do our silent and frequent reviews 
of home, and the most trivial or weighty associa¬ 
tions connected therewith, retain for us alone their 
vigor and beauty. Memory now recalls with vernal 
freshness to many of us, our childhood's valuable 
estimate of every thing connected with that haunt we 
then called home. Whose boundaries ever possessed 
such avenues for utility and amusement as ours; 
such delightful meadows and petted herds; such 
beautiful flowers and luscious fruits; even such 
another house the sunlight never reached, and the 
mechanic never built. Its very crevices were 
sacred for whispering strains of music from the sigh¬ 
ing winds. Its spacious fire-place was charming 
for the light and warmth it gave the winter even¬ 
ings long. 
So tree and constant were our childish delights, 
that aDy interruption seemed sad and strange. But 
fatigue and sorrow are felt by all; and. when they 
came, and even gayety grew tiresome, who had a 
better grandma to calm the troubled spirit, and fold 
the arms to rest? The much-loved grandmother— 
her spirit has flown, but not the memory of her 
kinducss. 
When childhood passed, and youth, with its golden 
hopes and joyous anticipations, took possession of 
onr being, how precious still was home. Its influ¬ 
ences to woo us were none the less, though changed 
to suit our years. Yea, well do we remember how 
the merry musical gatherings enhanced the joy of 
all; how fond parents, even, lorgot the while their 
toils and heart-aches as the invisible power of song 
recalled for them the past and revived associations 
half buried. 
Though each period of our existence is fraught 
with change, we still may realize that within a 
happy home the most perfect lessons of life arc 
given, and the soul receives its sweetest music. 
’Tis here that children early learn the unremitting 
vulue of affection and forbearance. Tis here that 
their unfolding capacities receive the impress of 
impartial heart-work and the pledge of constant 
love. ’Tis here that the star of forgiveness shines 
with the loveliest brightness, and the mantle of 
charity is wrapped most fondly around the erring. 
Austinburg. Ohio, 1802. Mus. Myua Siiki.iiuk.nk. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GIRLS.—No. IV. 
If there is anything which I positively detest, it is 
an affected pieco of femininity. ’Tis sometimes 
really amusing to see Miss Jones twitching and 
jerking herself, first this way. and then that, for the 
express purpose of putting her dress in a horizontal 
swing. 
Her half hour's practice before the mirror will 
not permit the admission of r's into her chattering 
with her adorable Aoolfhus, for fear of drawing 
her mouth out of its bewitching pucker. She 
squeals most terrifically at the sight of a stray 
mouse, and goes into hysterical convulsions if her 
Annum n? chances to find her darning her father’s 
socks, or engaged in any useful employment. 
Miss Jones has a long train of sisters who are far, 
simile. You find them simpering and donning hi- 
fa-lu-lin airs in every other drawing-room and 
millinery establishment. You hear them expati¬ 
ating upon pa’s carriages, pa’s horses, and ma’s 
line dresses and furniture. Miss Jones never gives 
veul to a hearty, gushing, ringing laugh, for that 
would be natural! But sbe gives utterance to a 
faint giggle, as though her mouth were corded with 
wrought iron wire. In church she allracls un¬ 
divided attention by her late entrance and wiggling 
manner. Am! the lady thinks’tis all owing to her 
superior charms, instead of the peculiar mouth-ex¬ 
pression, that makes one think it had not opened in 
ten years. 
Girls, throw aside your affectation. If you want 
red cheeks, let nature paint them for you. Don’t 
sport the “fever spots” that my chum says a “ little 
warm water and soap will rub off.” Unloosen the 
puckering strings in your mouths, and don’t talk as 
though the hinges of your jaws had not been oiled 
in a decade. If nature has given you waists thirty 
inches in circumference, thank her lor it. If she 
had intended you to look like a wasp, she would 
have made you so. Never be ashamed of any 
employment that is honorable. If Adolphus ele¬ 
vates his nose because you feed the pigs and 
poultry, stick up yours so high at him that he will 
never see it come down. Be natural in every thing. 
’Tis the only true beauty and the only mode of 
being lady-like. Affectation renders the finest form 
uncouth and the sweetest face insipid. 
Minnie Mintwood. 
Alfred University, Allegany Co., N. Y,, 1802, 
THE MOTHER. 
Around the idea of one’s mother, the mind of a 
man clings with fond affection. It is the first deep 
thought stamped upon our infant hearts, when yet 
soft and capable of receiving the most profound 
impressions, and all the after feelings of the. world 
are more or less light in comparison. I do not 
know that even in our old age we do not look back 
to that feeling as the sweetest we have through life. 
Our passions and wilfulness may lead us far from 
the object of our filial love; we learn even to pain 
her heart, to oppose her wishes, to violate her com¬ 
mands: we may become wild, headstrong, and 
augry at her counsels or opposition; but when 
death has stilled her monitory voice, and nothing 
but calm memory remains to recapitulate her virtues 
and good deeds, affection, like a flower beaten to the 
ground bv a past storm, raises up her head, and 
smiles among her tears. Around that idea, as we 
have said, the mind clings with fond affection; and 
even when the earlier period of our loss forces mem¬ 
ory to be silent, fancy takes the place of our remem¬ 
brance, and twines the image of our dead parent 
with n garland of graces and beauties and virtues 
which wc doubt not that she possessed. 
If the body is, as an old author calls it, the bride¬ 
groom of the soul, many a good looking body is 
worse married than Socrates was. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE COTTAGE BY THE RIVER SIDE. 
BV V. E. KNOWLES. 
Though palaces and halls may boast 
Of costly sites, and pomp, and pride, 
I cannot help admiring most 
The cottage by the river side. 
However dazzling wealth and art 
Ma> be to those who worship show, 
That home is dearer to my heart 
Than any oilier oue below. 
It is Dot always that we prize 
The costly gems of sand and ore, 
For often, in our simple eyes, 
Some humble treasure may seem more. 
To him who wishes to behold 
Only a humble cot like this, 
Tinsel and show are blank and cold, 
And home and comfort earthly bliss 
That, I suppose, is why I cling 
To such a plain but dear abode, 
And of its homely virtues sing 
To friends at home and all abroad 
And let the hall and palace boast 
Of costly sites, and pomp, and pride, 
I cannot help admiring most 
The cottage by the river side! 
Wilson, N. Y., 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
EVERY-DAY LIFE.* 
BY LEAD PENCIL, KSQ. 
I mounted my horse —half dreaming I mounted 
him. That Havana was having ite effect upon my 
nervous system. 
An hour ago I was in a stale of intense mental 
excitement. The high reaching, rocky sides of the 
Blue Ridge on the one side, and a spur of the Alle- 
ghanies on the other, with the beautiful, radiant 
valley tbrougli which I was traveling, and the gal¬ 
loping pace of my horse, had stimulated thought 
and imagination. I was happy—as happy as a 
lover of homo and friends could be, a thousand 
miles uway from both. My mind was my kingdom, 
aud I a reveller in its capital. 
It was noon. My horse was wet with perspira¬ 
tion. A hotel was before me—such an one as is 
only found in the South — the host, a large, brown¬ 
faced, black-eyed, straight-haired, tobacco-mouthed 
Virginian planter. 
“ Will you order my horse fed and carefully taken 
care of?—for I have been riding like the dickens.” 
There was no answer direct, but a “ Ho, Bob!” 
(crescendo) brought a male counterpart of Topsey 
to the door. 
“ Take care of that horse, yon young rascal; do it 
right smart too — none of your shamming, now.” 
Mr. Topsey had mounted and was galloping 
towards the airy, whitewashed Virginian shed 
before his master’s speech was finished. I stood 
watching him and his antics, as he performed them 
in the saddle, thinking of ike sprightly, docile na¬ 
ture of this people, when I was interrupted in my 
thinking with— 
You want dinner. I ^reckon—(hesitatingly) may 
be You’re a trader.” 
“ Yes, I want dinner, for I am hungry. Have 
rode from S-since breakfast, and have earned an 
appetite.” Then looking at him sharply, 1 asked, 
“ Why did yon ask if I was a trader?” 
“ Thought yon took a right smart fancy to that 
Imy. Stranger, I’ll sell him if you want him. ne’s 
killed two pigs for me to-day, and will knock the 
head off a chicken or turkey with a stone, wherever 
he can find one — destroys more than he is worth, 
and I’ll be dogged if I don’t sell him. You’re going 
to Richmond, I reckon—can take him along just as 
well as not, and shall have him at your own figures. 
Make me au offer!” 
He sat reclining on a bench, on the piazza, with 
his back near an open window. I was seated in a 
chair, fronting him, leaning against one of the 
columns of the piazza. A dusky figure appeared at 
the window a moment, met my eye with a glance, 
and disappeared. I cannot describe the sensation 
Unit glance produced, or the impression it made; 
but I watched earnestly for another view. I hesi¬ 
tated to respond to the proposal of the planter, and 
seemed to be consulting my own convenience and 
means, the probability of sale, and the promises the 
market held out for realizing my money again, 
when the planter impatiently exclaimed:—“No use 
thinking, stranger; give your own price. I’m bound 
to get rid of the cussed nigger. Ho has made me 
trouble enough. He is the only pest I’ve got about 
me.” 
“ You'll have another if you sell him,” hissed a 
shadow inside the window. 
The planter started from his seat as if he had 
been shocked with a battery. “ Who the d—1 was 
that?” he shouted. There was no shadow to be 
seen when he looked, and turning to me again, 
greatly excited, he asked, “ Did you hear that?” 
“Yes.” 
“ Who was it?—did you see anybody?” 
“ Not then,—no.” 
“ Well, well; if it has come to that”— and he was 
getting in a great rage, when f said, “ No, my 
friend, I am not a trader—never owned a negro in 
my life, aud never expect to —wouldn’t own one if 
you would give me a bill of sale of the best boy or 
girl on your place, i am a Nortbenor—am down 
here on business for au-firm, and am traveling 
all over the State. I keep my eyes and ears open, 
aud intend to represent things just as they are, 
when I go north. 1 like you fellows—you South¬ 
erners—pretty well; but 1 shall find some fault with 
your institutions—not half as much a- i expected 
to be able to do, however, f do nut know as I could 
tell you the best way to get it ul • si -very, but I do 
not like the idea of separating families — children 
from parents, brothers from sisters, and husbands 
from wives. It is unnatural; you know it is, and 
that the mother of that boy will feel the parting 
from her offspring as acutely as you would from 
your own child. Brutish and ignorant as they may 
bo, they have natural affections that can never 
be smothered. This very system of oppression 
strengthens their sympathies for and attachment to 
each other to an extent you can hardly appreciate. 
1 know you are not hard-hearted—that you are 
provoked with the freaks of this boy; but you bad 
better endure something from him than be obliged 
to endure more from those who will be afflicted by 
his sale. Better think of that. My advice has been 
pretty freely given. I know, but with the best good 
will.” 
* in the Valley of Virginia—an actual occurrence (and per¬ 
sona! adventure) in 1856. The sketch was written then and 
has just turned up in my port folio. 
“ Well, stranger. I’ll go hanged if I ever had one 
of you Northern fellows take the liberty to talk like 
that to me before. But you are sensible. I’ll be 
dogged if you aint! What a row and hullabaloo 
Deb would make! She’s quiet and contented like 
now; but I lflieve, on my soul, that teas her said 
that a little while ago; and she dont say things she 
dont mean, 1 tell you. Come, let's see if she’s any 
dinner for you.—Ho, Deb!” And “ Deb” appeared 
with, “ Yes, Massur!” 
“Come, how long must this gentleman wait for 
his dinner, Deb?— he is mighty hungry.” 
“It'o’the looked like he’s hungry, Massur. and 
I’ze done dressed that chicken that orful ’ch’ev’us 
Bob (wish you'd 'spose of him some how.) of mine 
killed thismornin’. T’o’t I’d turn him to some 
’count, no how. Massur: so I did. Dinner ready 
d'rpctly. sir.” And away she went with a bound 
that might be called elastic for a woman of her 
years. 
The master turned to me as she disappeared, and 
with a peculiar and mysterious expression, said, 
“ That wench has heard every word we’ve said. I 
told her. this morning, I would sell the pesky boy 
to the first trader that came along, and she heard 
me offer him to you; it was her that said ‘you’ll 
have another if you sell him’— and then did you 
hear her say, 1 Wish you'd 'spose of him some how’? 
You can see the devil is in her if she gets waked up. 
But she is worth her weight in gold to me—couldn't 
manage my plantation without her.that’s a fact, and 
do not believe 1 could keep her twelve hours if I 
should cross her path by seLling Bob — for she sets 
right smart by him. He's her last chid—all the rest 
are gone. Well, for her sake I’ll endure him. that’s 
a fact. Poor Deb!” —and he subsided into a sort of 
remorseful musing, 1 imagined. 
“Deb” afterwards told me she had “raised five 
boys, which Massur had sent to Richmond, and 
’twouid break her up, no how. it Bon should go.” 
After dinner, and after a talk about wheat, clover 
and tobacco prospects, I bade my host “ good day,” 
at the same time receiving assurances that I had 
“ likely saved him the price of that wench,” and I 
was “welcome to the chicken Bob killed” and I 
had eaten, and I would be “mighty welcome” if I 
came that way again. 
There was an illumination of Deb's and Don’s 
dark visages, when 1 gave them the customary coin; 
and as I said, “Boh, you must not kill any more 
chickens,” Aunt Deb responded, “ He wont Massur, 
’cept you is ’spccted,” at the same time indulging in 
a low chuckling laugh. 
— I mounted my horse—half dreaming I mounted 
him. That Havanna was having its effect upon my 
nervous system. A reaction was taking place, and 
1 fell into a fit of musing upon the origin, growth 
and magnitude of au institution that finds defenders 
among those who suffer most from it-—upon a 
burthen that is crushing the manhood out of a peo¬ 
ple who are now lighting to retain it. 
FRETFULNESS, 
“It’s the fretting horso that sweats,” said the 
coacli-driver. Up hill and down, over the smooth 
hard sand, and over stones and through ruts, it was 
all the same to the steady gray. But the young 
Wack champed his bit. and pranced over the sand. 
The foam lay in streaks under his haunches and on. 
his chest. After an hour's drive, he was more lit for 
the stall than the harness. 
it is quite as true of men as of horses, that “the 
fretting one sweats.” 
In our common toils occur many little annoy¬ 
ances which we wish were out of the way. Some 
pin loose, some article mislaid, when wo are in 
instant need of it, disturbs the mind. It loses its 
balance by the vexation, and foams and complains 
till its fit place is a solitary bed. Others, better dis¬ 
ciplined. take these things as a matter of course; 
they let nothing worry them. If a pin is lost, while 
peevishness is fretting they have a new one made 
and are off. If a tool is missing, they have the calm 
eye, which will find in five minutes that which 
eludes the fretful for half a day. 
Give a composed, patient man, oversight of labor¬ 
ers. or a patient woman charge of a large household. 
That patience oils every wheel; things run smoothly, 
and run well; while an irritable, fretful mind, with 
twice the help and half the cares, will keep all in a 
foam from January to December. 
With some, fretfulness becomes a habit. Even 
those professing the virtues of piety are sometimes 
the victims of this chronic plague. Nothing con¬ 
tents them. Surrounded by bounties that are 
enough to gladden into a grateful repose, they have 
no eye for mercies. At much and little, they carp 
alike. If a pin is lost, or a servant beyond call, 
they complain as loudly as over a year’s rheuma¬ 
tism. There is no joy of harvest, if half a hundred 
ol hay spoils. The journey is tedious if the sun 
shines; dull and gloomy if it does not. The servant 
is absolutely vicious and good for nothing, who once 
a week errs, or is late or slow. 
There are several reasons why such a disposition 
should be overcome, especially by the children of 
God. 
It is foolish; nothing is gained, but much is 
always lost, bylosingone's patience and equanimity 
of mind. When difficulties beset or trifles annoy, 
we overcome them only by a cool head and a firm 
hand, while fretfulness increases every annoyance. 
It is hurtful to others. They, perhaps, are already 
sufficiently reproved hy a glance at the results of 
their carelessness, or have erred by accident, when 
honestly endeavoring to do well. It is a cruelty 
which debases aud hardens them, at such a time to 
be obliged to endure an undeserved or severe 
reproach. It is sinful. We are less than the least 
of the mercies we enjoy. It truly grateful, what¬ 
ever our estate, we shall find occasion for praise. 
Seldom—never, indeed—do we sutler or endure so 
much that we do not deserve far more. To repine, 
chafe, fret, complain, is Therefore wicked. It is to 
stand before God, holding in our hands the manifest 
blessings which he has in wise mercy given, and 
say, like proud beggars, “Lord, is this all? Why 
did yon not give me more? or, why did you give 
me a tarnished good?” 
0, this fretfulness! It destroys the comeliness of 
piety, wastes its strength, robs it. of commendation. 
Let us then cease from it. a9 unbecoming the house¬ 
hold of faith—as being really what it Is, a sin.— N. 
Y. Observer. _ _ _ 
As gold is found but here and there upon earth, 
so it is with love in human life. We meet a little in 
the hearts of children, and in our households; but 
It is here and there a scale of gold and a whole con¬ 
tinent of dirt.— Beecher. 
The three doctors who cure more than all the 
rest of the faculty, are Doctor Diet, Doctor Activity, 
and Doctor Merryman. 
IMS, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A PRAYER. 
BT GRACE GLENN. 
How long, oh, Lord, before this weary toil shall cease, 
This over-burdened heart from care And sweet release? 
How long before these way-worn feet may rest. 
Tltis aeliing head lie pillowed on Thy loving breast? 
When shall these longing eyes shed no more bitter tears, 
And only words of Peaec fall on these list'ning ears? 
When shall the life-hlood warm uo more tnv pulses fill; 
These hands, their labor done. He folded, calm, and still? 
How long before this glow from out my cheelt shall fade, 
And. from the waters pure, this burning he allayed? 
These faltering Ups and tongue be turned to harmony, 
And, all its fetters loosed, the prisoned soul go free? 
When may the Pearly Cates for me be open thrown, 
That I may drop the ( Voss and go to wear the Crown? 
Earth once was fair, hut all that made it th<‘n so bright 
Is faded now.—I grope alone in sorrow s night 
My eyes are weak and dim.—I cannot see my way. 
Oh, Father, lead me hence into Thy perfect day. 
No stars shine through the cloud, to lighten up the gloom; 
Oh, “say it is enough,’’—in mercy take me home. 
Michigan, 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MYSTERY. 
The mantle of mystery has been thrown around 
every thing connected with the earth and our earthly 
existence, from the growth and perfection of the 
fragile flower to the origin and various motions of 
matter and the operations of mind. There is much 
on every hand—grief, pain and sin —which God 
has permitted while exercising His authority as 
Supreme Ruler, which cannot be reconciled, by 
beings of finite intelligence, with the assertion, 
“Gon is love,” The reasons of things are hidden 
from human vision, so that we can only say, “’Tis 
mystery all.” What gives vitality to vegetation, 
and causes the nourishing juices to flow upward? 
Why is the beginning of our earthly existence ’mid 
suffering, and its end ’mid wasting pain? Why 
were sin and death permitted to come in, to blight 
the glories of man's earthly heritage ? Why do 
tears so often flow, and hearts so often bleed? Why 
are the fiery darts of pain so often thrust into our 
weary frames, until every nerve has thrilled with 
suffering? These are a few of the innumerable 
problems which overmatch human wisdom. The 
Blind is, indeed, continually enlarging its range of 
knowledge; yet we have only understanding suffi¬ 
cient to be conscious of certain facts, aud the mo¬ 
ment we attempt to advance farther, we fall heavily 
against the high walls limiting us to a finite state. 
“ We see in part” 
And “it doth not yet appear what wc shall be.” 
We can form but the faintest conceptions of our 
future state. But—blest assurance!—we know “we 
shall be like Him” when the pains connected with 
this life are past. When we shall, like the nautilus, 
“cast off our shells by lilc’s unresting sea,” “wc 
shall know even as we are known”—launching out 
upon the infinite sea. “clear as crystal,” extending 
to the very throne of Gon. Meantime, we may bid 
our weary souls to rest on this sweet assurance, 
that behind the mysterious laws working seeming 
ill. there sits, in IJis calm majesty as Infinite Sover¬ 
eign, One who is so controlling them as to draw 
from the puzzling and distracting eveuts of this life 
the highest ultimate good of His creatures; and 
that the most darkly mysterious dispensations of 
His providence are ordered by the infinite love of 
Ono who is infinitely wise. a. t. e. c. 
Wudhams’ Mills. N. Y.. 1862. 
-- 
BEAUTIFUL PRAYERS. 
The prayers are beautiful that reach the ear of 
God. The fervent prayer of the righteous man 
availcth much, and is beautiful. The prayer of the 
widow and the fatherless, who have no helper, is 
beautiful. The prayer of the infant, who takes 
God’s promise in his “moist, implicit grasp,” as he 
does his mother's hand, is beautiful. The prayer ol 
the lowly saint, unlettered and ungrammatical, is 
beautiful. The prayer of the poor man when “ God 
heard him and delivered him out of all his troubles,” 
was beautiful. The prayer of the publican who 
smote upon his breast and said, “ God be merciful 
to me, a sinner,” was beautiful. The prayer of 
Stephen, when amid the storm of stones he cried, 
just before he “foil asleep,” “Lay not this sin to 
their charge,” was beautiful. There is a grammar 
and rhetoric of heaven; but it is foreign to the 
culture of this world. The courtiers there wear 
“ wedding garments,” and they speak the celestial 
language; but sometimes they seem ragged and 
ignorant to the eyes that are blinded with the clay 
aud dust of our earthly roadsteads. We cannot 
always discern the fashions of heaven. There is a 
frippery that sometimes claims to be the garb 
divine, but is mere tinsel. There is an “excellency 
of speech” which is jargon and mockery in the ear 
of God. There is “sounding brass and tinkling 
cymbal”—mere clutter, and not celestial music at 
all. There are. “beautiful prayers” that are un¬ 
lovely aud abominable before the Searcher of hearts. 
-- 
Good Deeds Rkwakded.— Our blessed Master 
gives us the grace to do good, and sends the reward 
for it. In a blessed sense, heaven is the place of 
compensation. In contemplation of such, Moses 
refused to be callod the son of Pharaoh’s daughter, 
because he had respect to the recompense of reward. 
It is not wrong, then, for the Christian to expect the 
reward which God has promised; for what says our 
Lord to those whom he has gathered together before 
Him?—“Come, ye blessed ot my Father, inherit 
the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation 
of the world;” “1 was hungry, and ye fed me,” etc. 
Oh! let us rejoice together if God so blesses us that 
at last we shall sing around his throne the song of 
salvation, “Glory to God iu the highest, and on 
earth peace and good will toward men.” 
-»- ■ ♦ «» - 
Wtjen I see. how much has been written ot those 
who have lived—how the Creeks preserved every 
saying of Plato—how Boswell followed Johnson, 
gathering up every leaf that fell from that rugged 
old oak, and pasting it away—1 almost regret that 
one of the disciples had not been a recording ange , 
to preserve the odor and richness of every word of 
Christ. ___ t m __ 
Ignorance.— A wilfully ignorant Christian is a 
contradiction. He is a barren fig tree. He is 
indolent servant who returned bis talent, which he 
had kept wrapped up in a napkin. When the Master 
i n . ...1 1-.TT ♦■tinrlfmr. wll tit Will 
